


Campfire Warmth, Lightning Sparks, Cooling Gold

by twilighteve



Series: DT17 Magic AU [5]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Everyone has magic, Family, Gen, Magic Bond, Out of control Magic, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25018201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilighteve/pseuds/twilighteve
Summary: Huey knew fire, and that meant he knew heat, and everyone carried heat within them. Dewey could generate electricity, and he could sense it around him, too. Louie could sense gold, and call it, and control it.With magic so prevalent in their lives, it wasn’t a surprise that Huey, Dewey, and Louie would be so familiar with each other’s magic.
Relationships: Dewey Duck & Huey Duck & Louie Duck
Series: DT17 Magic AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777444
Comments: 21
Kudos: 99
Collections: Finished111





	Campfire Warmth, Lightning Sparks, Cooling Gold

Huey knew fire, and that meant he knew heat, and _everyone_ carried heat within them. He could feel them when he really tried, and he would be able to tell who were around him. It was a little like heat vision, in a way, only that he _sensed_ the heat instead of _seeing_ it through special goggles. There was also the fact that each person’s heat felt different. Webby’s heat was different from Uncle Donald or Mom’s, for example. Webby’s was the warmth of a hearth in winter, hugging and inviting; Uncle Donald’s reminded him very much of underwater thermal vents, and Mom’s felt like the unrelenting sun in the middle of summer.

As long as they entered a certain range, Huey could feel them, vague and blurred like distant light in fog. If he really concentrated, he could tell who it was, and they always got clearer the nearer they were to him.

But Dewey and Louie were different. He could always feel them, no matter how far away they were. Their heat was a constant thing, always there at the back of his mind, accompanying each step he took and bringing him a vague sense of comfort and acceptance. Sometimes, he would reach to them, feeling Dewey’s quick and flitting heat that touched and jumped away again, like lightning scorching the ground and disappearing, and Louie’s constant exuding heat – much cooler than Dewey’s intense but flitting heat – that reminded Huey of the constant heated air of a forge, like air-cooling metal after being smelt.

Their magic only intensified that heat. Dewey’s lightning-quick heat was even more flitting, even more intense, constantly buzzing when dormant, and Louie’s heat grew weaker but more contained, like cold-forged gold. Each night, as he fell asleep, he reached into them and felt their dwindling heat as sleep began to claim them, and found himself resting better.

* * *

Dewey could generate electricity, and he could sense it around him, too, and he had found that _everyone_ carried at least a little bit of electricity within them. Not in their phones, though it also counted, but in their body and the air around them. In general he could only feel the inner electricity when he was touching the person he was sensing, but the soft buzzing field around people was a lot easier to detect.

And it got easier to differentiate each person’s field, too, as time went on. Webby’s was a low buzzing static that enveloped her and easily left traces in other people’s fields, Uncle Donald’s reminded him of an electric eel; quiet, building, building, building, and discharged when his temper flared. Mom’s was sudden lightning in clear blue sky. And sometimes, when Dewey was close enough, he thought he could sort of feel the changes in other people’s fields that gave him impressions of what they were feeling. It was only a fleeting impression that was never a sure thing, though. Sometimes it made him desperate to feel the hints of approval within their fields, but most of the time, he couldn’t tell.

But it was different with Huey and Louie. With them, he could always feel them as long as they were within sight, like his eyes were drawn to the energy they exuded. He could always feel them at the back of his mind, watching, keeping track, ready to help if needed be. Huey’s was a constant steady buzz, giving off a feel of warmth and support. His buzz strengthened with his feelings, with it growing intense when he had a flare of temper, but was otherwise always present. With Louie, it felt almost imperceptible at times, but like Huey he was constant. Lazier, somehow, sluggish, more on the colder side and more easily drowned out by other, stronger buzz, but it connected with his own buzz so easily it was surprising. They always responded when he reached out to them, soft buzzes that he poked and quickly poked back, with Huey quicker to respond but somehow keeping his stance, and Louie taking longer to reach back but easily pulling his buzz into his own like it was nothing.

When their magic came in, it was easier to see why. Huey might have been a constant buzz, but fire was still fickle to change; it flickered in a breeze and blazed when provoked, and Dewey knew gold was used as a conductor for electricity. But he was grateful with how their buzz felt underneath his fingers. It made him feel secure in a way no one else has ever managed to, and he welcomed it with open arms.

* * *

Louie could sense gold, and call it, and control it. When he expanded his senses, he could feel gold in his vicinity; the necklace that one passing duck wore, the loop that one busker had on his nose, the small amount of gold in electronics. Sometimes, when he really concentrated, he thought he could feel other people, too. Not their jewelry or the phones they carried, but the person themselves. But people had always been flitting and hard to grasp.

It wasn’t much different with Huey and Dewey. Sure, he could sense them more easily, but that was probably more because they’d grown up together to the point that Louie could tell when they were around and less because he could _sense_ them.

When his magic came in, it somehow got worse and better at the same time. Huey, like his magic, has always reminded Louie of heat and fire, a constant flickering flame from a comforting campfire, and Dewey had always been active with short attention span, much like the lightning he called to his hands. Their heat and flitting intensity made it easier for Louie to spot them, but at the same time, he would be better off trying to track them through their phones or something. Their magic muffled what little something Louie could use to track them, and sometimes it made him feel lonely in a way he couldn’t describe to them.

But sometimes, he would feel something at the back of his mind, reaching for him; like campfire beckoning him closer, or like sparks of electricity jumping excitedly. It never took him long to recognize Huey and Dewey. He could recognize them anywhere. He would reach back, always, and rested easy with the knowledge that they were there, ready to remind him that they were around.

* * *

Huey was _aware_ of himself – of his heat, of his fire, of _everyone’s_ fire – when he used his magic. It expanded as he _felt_ the heat around him, as he raised his temperature until the air grew hazy with it, and willed it to _spark_ and let the licks of flames dance.

He would be aware of where the others were, which was convenient; he knew from the start that fire was hard to control and could be dangerous to wield, and knowing there others were made it easier to track where he should avoid blasting flames and where he had free reign to do whatever he wanted. It was like holding any sort of weapon. He needed to know where his friends and family was to avoid hurting them.

In a way, it was almost like his world focused. Everything felt sharper and easier to track, more obvious, so much _louder_ in a way he never thought heat could be before. Sometimes, everything felt _too focused_ , and it got a little scary.

But that was okay. All he needed to do was reach for Dewey’s lighting-quick-scorch and Louie’s cold-forged-gold, and he knew he would find the strength to keep going and let the laser-focus blur back into the quiet warmth, and everything would be okay.

* * *

Dewey’s senses reached out and expanded when he used his magic, as if his electricity keep jumping out and reaching farther, farther, farther, until it couldn’t anymore. It could only really go one way, but the reach was so far he sometimes wondered how he could even get that information.

He would know who was there, in the direction where his lightning was going, and just for a fleeting moment he would _know_ what they felt. And sometimes, when he sensed the person his lightning passed, he would feel fear clenching his heart. He never really found out his powerful his lightning could be, but he knew his usual zaps were strong enough to singe. How much would be too much? How far would be too far? How should be keep from hurting someone?

Whether it was a conscious effort or not, he almost always found himself reaching for his brothers for support and reassurance when he let his lightning loose. Huey’s steadying buzz would let him stand taller on his own feet, and Louie’s own would snake into Dewey’s, adding stability into his wavering will and letting him take control of his magic.

And in the end, that was all he needed. Huey and Louie’s presence was all he needed to make sure everything would be okay.

* * *

Louie’s world would narrow into a single focus when he let his magic loose. When he let his senses out to search for a specific piece of treasure, or when he exerted his will to the gold he wished to control, everything else vanished – all that was left was the gold, and what he wanted for the gold.

Nothing else mattered anymore. Nothing else existed. His vision would grow darker and tunneled until all he could see was the glitter of his own magic. Sounds grew muffled and distant, and words spoken to him ceased to hold meaning. Every bit of warmth he felt would recede, leaving cold, cold, metal cold in its wake. His own feelings and thoughts grew muted until he was a blank slate that only had eyes for the gold. All that was left of his own will was what he wanted his magic to do.

Feeling others had always been almost impossible to do, but when his magic reared in, he was barely even aware of himself. But sometimes, he could feel a touch of breeze or a splash of water, too weak to identify properly, or the stronger campfire warmth and jumping sparks. And sometimes, the feeling would persist, stubbornly grabbing until _Louie_ , who was buried deep underneath the gold and glitter, was pulled back into the forefront and the darkness faded into light, the distant sound would grow louder, and he could understand meaning in speech again. More likely than not, he would feel fingers holding him gingerly, arms wrapping around him and chasing away the coldness, infusing warmth back into his body and calling him back to wake.

He never found it in himself to reach for his brothers when his magic pulled him in so deep he forgot who he was, but he wasn’t worried about that. He knew, no matter what, Huey and Dewey would be ready to pull him back to the surface.

* * *

Huey had felt the changes of the heat simmering the air when his brothers used their magic. He’d noticed it with Mom and Uncle Donald, too; Mom’s summer sun intensified and wrapped around her, solar winds roaring and letting her soar, while Uncle Donald’s heat exploded, like underwater volcano erupting. Which was weird, because their heat when they used magic and their own magic were different; Mom’s summer sun, at least, went well with the string winds and blue sky around her, but Uncle Donald’s rising waves and deep-sea-pressure contrasted with the eruption, a little.

He was still most familiar with Dewey and Louie’s heat and how their magic changed their heat. Dewey’s lightning heat intensified until Huey felt like he would get scorched if he touched Dewey, but he was never worried. He knew Dewey and knew his strangely comforting scorching heat, and he knew Dewey would never hurt him.

But Louie… _worried_ him. And Huey said _worry_ , not _scare_ , because of course he wasn’t scared of Louie. He would never be scared of Louie.

It would be a lie, though, if he said Louie’s magic didn’t unsettle him at times. With Dewey, and Mom, and Uncle Donald, their heat built and intensified as their dormant magic rose to the surface. With Louie, it was different. His heat had always been gentle to begin with, like cooling gold after being forged, but when he used his magic it was like the metal had grown cold at last. His magic felt uncomfortably cool to Huey. Coupled with how his expression seemed to grow slack and he became unresponsive to words, Huey couldn’t help the way his stomach turned.

But that was fine. He was the responsible brother, and he would take care of them. He kept his eyes on Louie whenever his heat grew weaker and pulled in into himself, kept his attention to Dewey whenever his heat grew stronger and intense, and swore he would keep them both safe.

* * *

Dewey noticed how the buzz of people around him was different when their dormant magic grew active. Mom’s sudden lightning strike would grow wild, shooting everywhere and jumping around without much care to the world, while Uncle Donald’s slowly, silently building electricity rose and kept getting stronger until it became a constant, and it wouldn’t grow weaker no matter how much he used his magic until its purpose had been filled. And it was great that he could at least feel that, because Huey and Louie had described feeling like the sea was swallowing them whole when Uncle Donald’s magic spilled, and he never felt _that_.

He still found Huey and Louie’s buzz easiest to identify. Huey’s constant buzz would intensify and grew hotter, hotter, hotter, the strength increasing until his field buzzed so strongly Dewey could almost hear it. It felt like him, it _was_ him, from the way the buzz kept him steady with Huey’s desire to affirm their family no matter how unsure he felt to the way it easily grew and flicker until his arms were ablaze.

Louie’s was different. Sometimes, it made Dewey turn to see if he was still there. Louie’s weaker buzz felt off, like it retracted into Louie abruptly and refused to even peek out. And Dewey didn’t like that.

Because Louie’s buzz had always been able to snake into his and let it go through them both. Louie’s buzz had always been able to pull some of Dewey’s own into Louie, letting it pass through to the ground or somehow managing to return Dewey’s buzz into himself again. But when he used magic, the field around him was practically nonexistent, gone to somewhere Dewey didn’t dare to get into, and he couldn’t _feel_ Louie anymore. Like he was just… gone.

But he’d noticed how Louie’s hand twitched when he heard Huey and Dewey call him, how the slackness in his face passed and how his buzz returned little by little when his brothers reached to him – with their voices, their hands, their magic. So he made the decision to always be aware when Louie’s buzz disappeared, so he could reach for him and pull him back out.

* * *

Louie had never been able to sense people with his magic the way Huey and Dewey could, not really. But he could still feel _magic_ , and it was honestly hard not to notice the way people’s magic rose to the forefront and blasted their vicinity with power when they used it.

Like how Mom picked up breeze and let it build until the wind carried her up, and how the very air around her felt like the blue summer sky rushing, white clouds blurring as she soared. Or how Uncle Donald emitted a feel of the tides, pushing and pulling and receding into the depths before rushing up, up, high up like devastating tsunami.

Like always, it was much easier sensing Huey and Dewey’s magic. Huey’s usual heat would build, and it was always easy to see the heat haze around him. Sometimes, when Huey let the temperature build without letting it burst into flames, his eyes would glint orange-red that reminded Louie of lava. And Dewey’s electricity sparked and jumped off his fingers and feathers all the time, with blue-white light glinting off his body and overtaking his eyes until they looked blankly white.

He’d seen Uncle Donald pay more attention to them when their magic flared – he probably did the same for Louie, too. Even Mom sometimes would have a somewhat wary look in her eyes, usually when Dewey’s sparks jumped more excitedly than usual. And in a way, he could understand why. Huey and Dewey’s command over their fire and lightning wasn’t perfect. The elements still reacted volatilely whenever they got emotional.

But Louie had always found comfort in Huey’s campfire warmth and Dewey’s lightning sparks. They had always been radiating comfort and safety and _home_. Sure, sometimes they lost control of their magic, but they had the best intentions. It only took _him_ the meager effort to call their names to make sure they didn’t get lost in their own power. Grab their hands, if it got bad. It never took Uncle Donald or Mom much more than that, either.

And, well. If they didn’t want to put in the effort, then fine. He’d pick up the slack.

* * *

Huey didn’t use his magic a lot. Not in his day-to-day life, anyway. As crazy as his family’s sense of normal was, there wasn’t much place for fire magic in classrooms, libraries, and the streets. There was place for it in his Junior Woodchuck outings, arguably, but it felt like cheating if he just lit his firewood on fire with his mind when his fellow Woodchucks had to light the fire the old-fashioned way.

Well, okay, Boyd lit his campfire on fire with his laser eyes, but if Boyd wanted to use his… _unique physiology_ that way, then that was his prerogative.

But in adventures with Uncle Scrooge? Oh, there were a lot of times to use it. It was almost a requirement, even, with the deadly traps and the dark caves and tunnels. And it was almost freeing, how he was able to use his magic. But he was also young, and inexperienced, and magic responded so easily to feelings that it was almost always volatile. So, if anything wrong was to happen, it was bound to happen in one of those adventures.

* * *

Dewey tried to limit his magic use as much as possible in his day-to-day life. Aside from not wanting to hurt people with his electric shocks, there wasn’t really much use for his magic in school and running about in Funzone or just playing war with his brothers and Webby. And, sure, sometimes they did use their magic playing war anyway, but come on, Webby had trainings in several martial arts, armed or otherwise. Using magic was basically levelling the playing field when it came to her.

And, well, he still zapped people from time to time, sure. But he was getting better at it! He knew to keep an eye out for signs when his magic had built up too much so he could get somewhere safe to discharge now.

He didn’t have to limit himself in adventures with Uncle Scrooge, not really. Sure, he still had to make sure he didn’t electrocute anyone lethally, but he didn’t really have to not use his magic the way he had to keep himself in check usually. He’d learned to jumpstart the plane safely, for one, and charging batteries and phones. He’d learned to use quick zaps to defend himself and his family from attacks, either from other people or from whatever creature wanted to swallow them whole. He’d even heard Mom and Uncle Donald and Uncle Scrooge discussing the possibility of him using his electricity to jumpstart a stopped heart once he’s gotten better at controlling himself, and that’s pretty cool, to be able to jumpstart a stopped heart. But, well, between his barely controlled magic and his tendency to wanting to look as daringly cool as possible, something was bound to go wrong sometime. And it was only natural that it would happen in one of their adventures.

* * *

Louie never really found any use of his magic in his everyday life. Sensing gold in any urban area was useless at best, since the gold around was most likely owned by people, and trying to control them was just plain rude since they weren’t his. Well, okay, he wished he could have more gold on his own, but he wasn’t about to flat out commit robbery to get rich.

And, okay, he used his magic to pull his khopesh to his hand all the time, and he kept bringing it around because it provided him with a sense of security in how holding gold and knowing he could defend himself when he needed to made him feel safe, but magic generally had no place in modern life.

Not so in adventures. He never really liked joining in their adventures because he didn’t do well with high-stress situations, but hey, he did like gold. And he would like to make sure his family would be safe. And given that sometimes Uncle Scrooge would bring them to maze-like tunnels or cave system, his gold sense came in handy, and if that could help lead them away from certain death, well, he was all for it. But adventures were never safe, and he knew there were chances of things going south within just a few seconds. So, of course, if he ever had a trouble with his magic – which was one of the few things he found comfort in during adventures – it would happen _then_.

* * *

It happened during an adventure, because of course it did.

They travelled out to the ocean just off the coast of Duckburg, braving the unnaturally still waters through the thick fog that had rolled in as the untimely winter-cold in the middle of summer creeped in and hugged every corner of the Duckburg Bay using the trawler Uncle Scrooge had plucked out of his garage and towed to the bay.

“We could have used my houseboat,” Uncle Donald grumbled, even though he had taken the role as the sea captain without much fuss. Launchpad hovered around him, managing a role as Donald’s first mate with surprising efficiency.

“Your houseboat will sink once it hits the bay,” Uncle Scrooge scoffed.

“She’s seaworthy!” Uncle Donald protested, indignant.

“As a _floating house in some body of water_. Not for this sort of expedition! Beakley told me your boat sank during the Shadow War!”

“It only sank because the shadows ripped it apart,” Uncle Donald muttered glumly. Mom, who had been listening without bothering to hide her grin, hissed in sympathy and patted Uncle Donald’s shoulder reassuringly. Uncle Donald nodded appreciatively.

Huey noted how much calmer Uncle Donald looked in this expedition, but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Uncle Donald had always looked a little bit more composed, more in control, when their adventures were anywhere near the ocean. He noticed how Uncle Donald rolled his shoulders with the ease of an old veteran in his field, feathers brushing lightly against the surface of the water, and he understood.

Uncle Donald didn’t bring the ocean within him, the way Huey could contain and summon fire anytime he wanted, the way Dewey could spark lightning as freely as he wished, the way Mom called to the wind to help her defy gravity. The fact that he was literally in his elements was probably an extra reassurance Uncle Donald couldn’t always have, and when he had it, Huey could see the adventurer in Uncle Scrooge’s old painting a lot more easily than usual, when Uncle Donald was land-bound and had his bad luck haunting his every step. He had his moments, but most of the time, his caution and protectiveness shrouded the daring adventurer he truly was on the inside.

“Remind me again why we’re going out to the sea with all this thick fog and cold when we could be sitting in the manor while drinking, I don’t know, hot chocolate?” Louie piped up. He looked at Uncle Scrooge. “We’ve usually gotten to the adventure speech by now.”

“Yes, yes, I’m getting to that,” Uncle Scrooge said with a smile, rubbing his hands together. “You should have heard of the _Lady Gullianne_?”

Huey blinked. “The legend? The ghost ship that’s said to travel foggy waters and come to Duckburg every summer?”

“Oooh, are we gonna fight ghost pirates?!” Dewey shot up in his seat, bouncing at the balls of his heels and staring expectantly.

“Uhhh, not exactly,” Uncle Scrooge said with a grimace. He cleared his throat. “Now. _Lady Gullianne_. We all know the story that circulates in the public, with the ship sailing out from old Duckburg hundreds of years ago during a foggy summer afternoon, never to be seen again, fated to roam foggy waters forevermore and can only come back to Duckburg Bay once every fifty years in a foggy summer day but unable to leave the ocean. What the legend doesn’t say… is _why_ and _how_.”

Huey took out his Junior Woodchuck Guidebook and flipped to an empty page, ready to scribble notes about _Lady Gullianne_. He noticed Louie noticing it and opening a voice recording app in his phone. He nodded in appreciation; he was a fast scribbler but Uncle Scrooge’s speech sometimes got too fast and spirited for him to follow.

Uncle Scrooge straightened and gazed out of the window into the foggy sea. “Fifty years ago, I managed to find my way into the _Lady Gullianne_. I did not go there to find something in particular; at that point I was just curious about the ship. I got to the captain’s quarters, and I found these.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folder. He flipped it open and showed them leaves of paper nestled in the folder, old and yellowed, with the writings faded. “It took me hours on that ship trying to read this, then I heard the anchor being hoisted and the ship start moving again. And I didn’t see any crew around.”

“Are we going up against ghosts now?” Louie asked.

“Possibly. I saw no one on the ship but it was still moving,” Uncle Scrooge said. “I got off the ship, after that. The ship was moving, the fog was starting to thin from the shore. I had no plans to get stuck in a ghost ship without any apparent crew for fifty years or more.” He shrugged. “I went home and studied the papers.”

“Did you find out how the crew disappeared?” Mom asked.

“I have speculations,” Uncle Scrooge admitted. He moved to the desk and settled the papers on it. “The captain’s journal details that the crew had something in their cargo. They carried the usual things for their supply run; food, water, they might have had some spices. But apparently, the night before they departed from the docks, someone went to town and took something that the captain suspected was cursed.”

“So this thing is what turned the ship into a ghost ship?” Uncle Donald asked.

“Most likely.” Uncle Scrooge rummaged around and pulled another sheet of paper. “Judging from the time period, my guess is the item in question is the Three Feathers Pin.” He pushed it to the middle, where everyone could see. Huey peered in to get a better look, and saw a piece of paper, showing a sketch of a pin from multiple angles, scribbled with notes. The pin in question was more of a brooch, featuring three rigid tail feathers joined at the base, with three gemstones glinting at the tips of each feather – one a sharp, startling red, one a pale, clear white-blue, and one a deep and intense green.

“The base of the pin is made from gold, with the fine details made with silver,” Uncle Scrooge pointed, showing the lines of markings of the feathers. “The gemstones are bixbite, aquamarine, and emerald – all three are from the beryl family. Legend has it that it was made by three brothers. One mined the gemstones, one mined the gold and silver, and the other made the pin. Eventually, they broke into a quarrel over who had the rights to get the pin, and the fighting was so intense they ended up killing each other.”

Dewey hissed. “Sheesh, that’s brutal.” He glanced at Huey and Louie. “Just so you know, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I wouldn’t either, why would I?” Huey agreed.

Louie looked away and smiled in that specific way he always did when he was joking. “Gee, glad to know I’m the only one who’s willing to sell any of you for one corn chip.”

Dewey gasped. “How dare you! I’m worth _two_ corn chips, at least!”

“Well, at least he’s generous. I’d sell Don for half a corn chip,” Mom added with a smirk, snickering when Uncle Donald let out an indignant _hey_. He was soon preoccupied when Launchpad asked him how many corn chips the pilot would worth.

“No! You’re all worth at least a thousand corn chips!” Webby chimed in. She looked genuinely disturbed.

“I don’t know, Webby, I don’t think anyone has done any person-to-corn chip conversion,” Huey commented. He furrowed. “Now how do you convert it, though…?”

Uncle Scrooge knocked the table loudly. “Kids, focus.” He looked at them one by one, exasperated, but there was a touch of fondness in his eyes. “Alright. According to the stories, the brothers’ hatred cursed the pin that anyone within vicinity of it would suffer bad luck. It is never specified what sort, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it managed to pull a whole ship to vanish.” Uncle Scrooge set the pin’s sketch aside. “The captain’s logs detailed how they kept trying to find land but were unable to. Their supply was dwindling. Eventually, the logs stopped. There is no confirmation of the crew’s fate.”

Huey glanced at Uncle Donald. “Any idea, Uncle Donald? You probably have the best guess.”

Uncle Donald’s gaze was grim. “I have an idea, but I hope I’m wrong.” He glanced at Huey and shook his head. “And I’m not telling what it is.”

Mom stared at him, and they seemed to have a silent conversation for a while. Huey frowned when he felt their heat rose and poked at each other, then Mom’s face turned grim and she shook her head. Their heat receded, and Mom turned to Uncle Scrooge. “So. We’re going to take this pin?”

“Yes. If I’m right – and I usually am, let me remind you – it should break the curse on the ship and let her dock.”

Mom folded her arms and stared at Uncle Scrooge. “Okay, why exactly do you want the pin? You keep circling back to the ship.”

“Of course I keep circling back to the ship. It’s a historical ship! It’s as much a treasure as the pin is, maybe even more!” Uncle Scrooge thumped his cane to the floor and huffed. “Honestly, _Lady Gullianne_ has been a pain in my arse for a long time. Business stalls every time the fog rolls in, and the fog comes right in the middle of summer vacation when everything should be booming! And the legend is so localized there is no tourist around to make it an attraction! And even if we could make it an attraction, no sailor is willing to sail to get closer to the ship!”

“That would be because the average sailors have better sense of self preservation than all of us combined, Uncle Scrooge,” Uncle Donald snarked.

Uncle Scrooge didn’t respond to that. “The pin in itself is a worthy treasure to take, but _Lady Gullianne_ herself is the main prize to be had.” He lifted up a fist resolutely. “I will lift the curse shrouding _Lady Gullianne_ and drag her back to the docks myself. People will see for themselves the ghost ship the Scrooge McDuck brings back from the foggy seas!”

“Can I manage the promotion and ticketing? I want seventy percent of the revenue,” Louie requested.

“We’ll start with ten and see how you handle the work before we decide for more, on the condition that you will locate the pin for us,” Uncle Scrooge shot back without missing a beat.

Louie frowned and leaned back. “Okay, but that might be hard. How big is the pin? It looks pretty small.”

“It’s about as long as my index finger, and about as wide,” Uncle Scrooge said, holding out his finger. “Since it’s gold, I figured you should be able to track it down.”

“I should, I guess.” Louie hummed. “Is there more gold in the ship? If you only want that specific pin, it might be hard to track. I get distracted by all gold equally.”

“We don’t know that for sure, but it will probably be put with the other treasure if there is more,” Uncle Scrooge said. He rummaged around an took out what seemed to be a detailed ship plan and gave it to Uncle Donald. “Since you are the one with the most experience with naval vessels, I want you to get us to the treasure cargo.”

Uncle Donald took the plan and scanned it. “Okay, I got it.” He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “So, what now?”

Uncle Scrooge gestured outside. “We go to the deck. Let’s see if we can board the lady.”

They filed out of the pilothouse, walking to the foredeck. Huey looked around the foggy expanse. “Uncle Scrooge, what do you mean we need to see if we can board?”

“The ship always comes, but you can’t board every time,” Uncle Scrooge answered. “I’ve been trying to board again. I thought you could only board once every three years, or five, or seven, or ten…” He sighed. “This is the fiftieth year. Let’s see if it’s our lucky number.”

“It better be, because I don’t like that we have to be here all cold when we could’ve been watching _Ottoman Empire_ with hot chocolate back home,” Louie grumbled, rubbing his hands together. He shivered, even though he’d worn much thicker clothes than his usual hoodies. Huey decided to take pity on him and bumped shoulders with him, knowing his natural body temperature was higher.

Louie’s reaction was immediately. He sighed and practically slumped over Huey’s side, and Huey slung his arm around Louie’s shoulders to keep him upright. He nearly lost his balance when Dewey pretty much put all his weight to him when he glued himself to Huey’s other side, but somehow he managed to stay upright. He sent Dewey an unimpressed glare.

“What? Louie’s right, it’s cold!” Dewey protested. “And you’re basically a living furnace!”

“Good to know that me running a higher temperature than normal is useful for you two,” Huey commented dryly.

“Shhh, pocket warmers don’t talk,” Louie shushed as he snuggled closer to Huey’s chest.

“I _will_ drop you, Louie.”

“Oh no, Huey doesn’t love me anymore. Dewey, you’re the only brother I have left.”

“That’s okay, Louie, I was always the best brother anyway.”

Huey huffed. “You two are the worst,” he grumbled, even as he shuffled so he could hold both of them better.

Dewey looked like he was about ready to comment when Uncle Donald made a muffled croaking sound. He straightened up, letting go of Huey, and on his other side Louie reluctantly did the same.

“What’s wrong? Did you see something?” Webby asked, looking around. “All I see is fog.”

“Something big is moving closer,” Uncle Donald said. “The seawater’s rippling.” When Uncle Scrooge asked him where from, he pointed ahead. “Not too far from here.”

“Launchpad, steer where Donald is pointing,” Mom told Launchpad, who went back to the pilothouse to man the wheel. The boat they used was never the fastest, but it creeped ahead especially slowly, following the direction Uncle Donald had provided.

Something shifted in the fog. A shape loomed.

* * *

When _Lady Gullianne_ was finally visible, close enough to see clearly through the fog, Uncle Donald let out a soft breath.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, and Dewey looked up to study the ship, and agreed. She was a large ship, grand in a way the trawler would never dream to be, wood creaking hauntingly like a soft lullaby trying to harmonize with the lapping water of the ocean. She held four masts, each holding sails that would have been square if age had not ripped and eaten them to the tatters that hung on the woods.

“It’s creepy,” Mom whispered back to Uncle Donald.

“Have some respect. She can be both,” Uncle Donald retorted. Mom regarded the ship again and gave a conceding noise.

_Lady Gullianne_ gave a groan and slowly came to a stop by their trawler. Clinking metal cut through the air, and a massive anchor splashed as it fell into the water, creating ripples that had the trawler bobbing up and down.

Dewey looked up, surprised when he felt something pinging his senses. Something caught, and suddenly electricity crackled that the very tip of the ship’s tallest mast, lighting blue-white light that stayed, whizzing static only he could really feel through the air.

“St. Elmo’s fire,” Huey said. “I… don’t think it’s common occurrence during foggy weather.”

“Sailors consider it a sign of good luck, though,” Uncle Donald retorted.

Uncle Scrooge hummed. “Last time I was able to board, it was present,” he said, staring at the crackling fire. “Maybe that’s the sign we can board. Let’s go.” He turned to Launchpad. “Drop the anchor and man the boat. We’ll be back soon enough.”

“Sure thing, Mr. McDee!” Launchpad yelled. He let the anchor drop, careless in his motion, and Uncle Donald winced when it hit the surface of water with a loud splash.

“How do we go up there?” Louie asked.

“I can fly you up,” Mom offered. Soon, they had been moved to the _Lady Gullienne_ ’s deck, flown easily as Mom summoned wind to her aid. They touched down on the cold wood of the deck, looking around the expanse.

Dewey took a deep breath and let his excitement spill over. “Okay, cursed pin, here we go!” He looked around, looking for a way to access the inside of the ship. “How do we go down?”

Uncle Scrooge turned to Louie. “Do we go down?”

Louie’s field of static pulled in into himself, the way it always did when he used his magic. It wasn’t much. His eyes didn’t turn into golden discs, only gaining glints of gold and green. The field of static expanded back out as the glints disappeared. “Yeah, down,” he said. “It’s around the back of the ship, down there. I can only feel gold in that spot. It feels like there’s a lot, though.”

“Good, that means more profit,” Uncle Scrooge practically sang. “Come on, then. Lead the way, Donald.”

Uncle Donald took out the ship plan, scanned it over, and looked around. He took a deep breath, then he began walking.

They walked down, dipping below deck and peeking into mess halls, through the corridors between cabins, looking around. Huey’s fire lit the way, and light from their flashlights shone to corners where Huey’s flickering flames didn’t reach. The ship was eerily still, silent save for the creaking of wood where they walked and the occasional groans as it bobbed on water, like a great beast struggling to wake. It would have been boring, with how little happened, if it wasn’t so eerie.

It would have been boring, if Dewey didn’t feel the ship filled to the brim with the buzz he felt around the living.

His eyes caught Huey rubbing his arm with his free hand, an uncomfortable look in his face as he looked around. Huey met his gaze and shrugged. “It’s cold,” he said.

“It’s… not,” Dewey said, hesitant. Huey almost never feel cold anymore, not since his magic came in.

“Wait, really?” Huey blinked in surprise and felt his forehead. “I don’t feel sick, though.”

Webby looked around, frowning. Her field felt somewhat… frazzled. “Can we just be quick? I don’t like it here.”

Uncle Donald glanced at the ship plan again. “I think we should go further down, still. Louie?”

Louie looked down. His eyes had glints of gold again. “Yeah, down,” he affirmed.

“Shouldn’t we explore, though?” Mom asked, and Dewey was torn – he wanted to impress her, still, and that meant he wanted to do what she wanted to do. But he really didn’t want to stay in the ship longer than he needed to be, and Mom didn’t look all that certain, either.

“I’ve taken the most important and informative things when I made my run last time. Lets just go and get the pin,” Uncle Scrooge said. “I don’t like it, either. It wasn’t this unsettling before.”

They kept making their way down, and eventually they reached the deepest part of the ship. This far down, Dewey could almost hear the groan of the ocean pushing against the wood of the ship. The soft light of Huey’s flickering flames reached the crevices of the empty hull.

Uncle Donald frowned. “This isn’t right. This is smaller than the blueprint suggests.”

“What, are you telling me the ship’s shrunk or something?” Mom asked, her frown matching Uncle Donald’s.

Uncle Donald shone his flashlight into the ship plan, studying it intently and looking around. At long last, he hedged, “I think someone built a wall to conceal something here.”

Louie glimmered gold and green, his field pulling in on himself. “I feel gold there,” he said as his glow receded, pointing at a wall. “Do we just… pull it apart?”

Uncle Donald gasped, aghast. “No! Look for a switch!”

So that was how they ended up running their fingers along the walls and floor, looking for something to open the wall. After a while, Dewey’s fingers caught between floorboards and found a latch of sorts. He pulled it, and something clicked as wood groaned and creaked, scratching against one another as it ground each grain to leave marks. When he looked up, he saw the wall in front of him had somehow moved, pulled out of its place.

“Good job, Dewey,” Uncle Scrooge praised, and Dewey preened under the approval. He watched as Uncle Scrooge and Uncle Donald pushing the wall aside, showing a gaping maw behind it. Dewey could see something glinting in the darkness, catching the light of their flashlights and Huey’s fire.

“That’s the gold,” Webby said, peering in. She casted her light around, keen eyes searching. “I think it’s safe to go in.”

“Let me go in first, just to be safe,” Uncle Scrooge said. He stepped lightly, carefully, into the room, looking at everything but the pile of gold in the middle of the room, tapping his cane experimentally and glancing back at his family. After a while, his shoulders relaxed and he bent to scoop a handful of gold coins. “Well. I suppose this is safe, then.”

Dewey kneeled by the pile of gold. “This doesn’t look like a huge amount of gold. How much is this? Like, a big travel suitcase full of gold?” He looked up at Uncle Scrooge. “I thought we’d get a lot more than that.”

“At least we got gold and not barrels of rotten spices,” Uncle Scrooge said with a shrug. “There _was_ time when spices is more valuable than gold.” He held up a coin and studied it with a smile. “This is good, though. It’s got historical value, outside the story that we found it in _Lady Gullianne_. If we can get the _Lady_ back to shore and the pin on top of that, we’ll be golden.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Do you see the pin?” Mom asked. She was looking around, staring at the crevices built into the walls, seeing trinkets sitting snugly in the occupied ones and shards and bent and dented trinkets littering the floor around the empty ones. “I don’t see anything resembling a pin.”

“I guess… I could try probing around for it?” Louie suggested. He looked around doubtfully, hands fidgeting inside the pocket of his hoodie. He looked like he was itching to draw the khopesh he strapped to his back, but he restrained himself from it. “It’s shaped like three feathers, has silver on it, and also three different gemstones, right?”

“Yes,” Uncle Scrooge confirmed. “Can you sense it specifically with all this gold here?”

“I don’t know, but I can try,” Louie said. He took a deep breath, slowly let it out, and called forth his magic.

Dewey didn’t feel Louie’s magic rise. He wasn’t sensitive to magic that way. But he could feel, like usual, Louie’s field of static disappearing as his face went slack and golden glow started to overtake him. His eyes flattened into golden discs as speckles of emerald appeared along the glow. He tilted his head as if in thought.

The gold coins rattled against each other as Louie’s glow intensified. Some of them started levitating. Fallen trinkets floated in midair while the ones snug in their crevices fell to the floor.

Dewey glanced at Huey and locked gazes with him. They both knew, they had to be there to call Louie out of this state later. Mom could do it too, as could Uncle Donald, but Dewey and Huey’s combined effort had always been the most successful champion.

Louie’s breath caught, and Dewey focused his attention back to him. “I found it,” Louie droned, voice devoid of feelings, and he lifted a hand. He must have beckoned to the pin to come to him, because something shot out of the pile of gold and landed firmly in Louie’s waiting palm while the pile settled again.

Later, Dewey would struggle to explain what had happened and how it all felt for him. He would explain it as all hell breaking loose, but that didn’t feel entirely accurate. After all, the others were okay. It was only the triplets that were affected, and Dewey had no idea why.

He could feel his own magic tensing, coiling, condensing into itself for a split second, then it blasted out with the power of a thousand storms. He cried out, more in surprise than anything. There were others yelling, too, but he wasn’t sure who. Huey’s distinct yelp rang out above the others, but he couldn’t hear Louie. He would have felt fear at that, if it wasn’t for the fact that his magic was bursting out of control and zapping blindly and occupying his attention.

The sharp sound of Webby shrieking and the loud _ping_ of something hitting another spiked up his panic, and he tried to breathe, breathe, calm himself and get his magic under control. He had to put a lid to his magic somehow, stop it from bubbling up and spilling away, but he wasn’t sure how.

Lightning zapped up and hit the ceiling, leaving a charred mark but miraculously not catching fire. Some more hit the walls, a few bolts went for his family. Some sort of barrier appeared around them, stopping the lightning. He wasn’t sure what it was.

He could hear someone calling his name, practically screaming their throat raw, but it was somehow buried by the buzzing in his ears and his own prayer, beak chanting _please please please_ as he tried to push the magic and lightning down under. He hadn’t been successful so far. His heart hammered loudly against his ribcage and the bright of his vision was blurred with tears. His magic was going wild, and he had no idea what to do with it.

“Dewey!” Huey’s voice rang clear, high pitched with stress. For a split second, his magic stilled.

Someone slammed into him and enveloped him in a crushing hug. His magic roared again, blinding his vision with white-blue that overtook everything as he buzzed again from head to toe. Then, in the rare moments when he could really feel others’ magic instead of their fields of static responding to the rising magic, he felt the surge of the depths and waves, and sea blue crept at the edges of his vision.

“Uncle Donald, stop,” Dewey pleaded, voice trembling. “I can’t keep it down. I’ll electrocute you.”

“Hush, Dewey,” was all Uncle Donald said before he rippled with his sea magic and Dewey felt like he had been plunged into the sea. The waves Uncle Donald wielded enveloped him and siphoned away his lightning until the buzz fell to manageable levels.

(Later, he would learn that Uncle Donald had called the sea to help him redirect the lightning, letting water’s conducive abilities to draw away the bubbling magic until Dewey could safely control it again.

Later, he would learn that the ocean around _Lady Gullianne_ had been awash with white-blue light that scattered and electrified whatever was in sight.

Later, he would learn that the trawler Launchpad had been waiting in had had electricity running up and down its metal walls, and it was a miracle that the engines weren’t fried, that the solid rubber of his boots had stopped the electricity from cooking him alive.

Later, Dewey would find his breath catch as _what-could-have-been_ haunted his thoughts, and Uncle Donald would say _sorry, sorry_ over and over again over not thinking about what would happen to the ocean around the ship and what it would mean for Launchpad, but his eyes would be grim. “The sea doesn’t care for him,” he would say.

But that was _later_. _Now_ , Dewey let Uncle Donald channel his magic someplace else, too afraid of hurting whoever was around his immediate vicinity to think much about _later_.)

Soon, his magic fell to a more manageable state. Still buzzing too actively to be comfortable, still prone to zapping, but it didn’t sharply jump and snarl at anything that moved. He extricated himself from Uncle Donald, muttering a thank you that received no reply, frowning when he saw Uncle Donald’s eyes still shimmering like ocean waves and his whole body shrouded in sea blue. He was twitching, almost uncontrollably, but at least he was aware of what Dewey had said, jerkily nodding at him.

He glanced around to check his surroundings. There were char marks at the wooden belly of the ship, but he had expected as much. Uncle Scrooge had pulled Webby to a corner, practically hugging her by the waist to keep her from charging into danger. There was something transparent around them, a shield of sorts that glinted when Dewey’s magic rose dangerously. The bracelets Webby wove for them shimmered beneath the shields. Louie was standing motionlessly, holding the pin, flowing softly gold. Dewey couldn’t feel his field at all, and that worried him.

But his main concern was Huey. Mom was with him, surrounded by the white cotton-like clouds around her that spread like feathers, so much more than her usual clouds that she generated when she used magic. In front of her, Huey stood hunched, his flames blazing uncontrollably as Mom used her magic to try to contain the fires into a sphere around Huey.

“Can you extinguish it yet, Huey?” she asked, voice trembling. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else I can do.”

“I – I can’t, I _can’t_.” Huey’s reply was followed by a series of wheezed breaths and broken sobs, and something in Dewey snapped. Huey wasn’t supposed to look like that, afraid and defeated by the very magic he normally wielded with a smile. His field should generate comfortable, welcoming warmth, not reeking of fear and hopelessness.

Huey let out another choked sob, and all traces of common sense left Dewey’s head. He moved before he fully realized what he was doing, Huey’s name in his beak, and he ran into the sphere of flames Huey was in, ignoring Mom’s horrified scream. He followed Uncle Donald’s example and rammed himself bodily to Huey, enveloping him in a hug, chanting a string of words consisting of Huey’s name and reassurances that it was okay. The fire was gone almost immediately, but it took a while for Huey’s body to cool down from the burning-coals-heat that had enveloped him. When Dewey let go, he could see Huey’s eyes glimmering orange-red, slowly returning to their usual colors.

“I can’t believe – the recklessness!” Mom yelled, incensed, and Dewey flinched. “Barging into fire! Dewey, you can’t just do that!”

Dewey curled and dug closer to Huey’s side as Mom spoke, tasting rust in his tongue. Did she hate him, now? He thought he had done what was required to bring Huey’s magic down. It wasn’t much different from what Uncle Donald had done for him.

“Della,” Uncle Donald interrupted, staring at Mom. Mom glared hotly at him, and for a moment their fields intermingled together, charging the air with static, before Mom looked away with a harrumph. Uncle Donald sighed and turned to Louie, twitching. “Louie? Can you hear me?”

Silence answered his question. Webby, who Uncle Scrooge had released, slowly approached Louie. “Hey, Louie?” she asked, her field brimming with uncertainty, while Louie’s field was still nonexistent. “Are you okay?”

“Something’s wrong with his magic, like ours,” Huey said slowly. “Maybe Dewey and I can pull him out of it…”

“Oh, I’m… I’m sure he’s fine, you two are,” Webby said, but her voice wobbled as though uncertain. “Maybe he’s just… surprised! Right, Louie?” She placed a hand on his shoulder.

He shone blindingly gold like the sun, dappled with emerald green only the clearest emeralds could be. His hood billowed, pushed by the force of his magic, and the gold around them rattled once more. Slowly each piece of gold floated up and circled Louie, slowly at first but surely gaining speed.

Webby stumbled back in shock, gasping when Louie, too, floated. The bright glow faded, somewhat, allowing them to see the duck beneath it.

Louie’s eyes always turned disc-like when he used magic. Like gold had taken over his insides and hammered his eyes into plates. The same thing happened, now, with Louie’s eyes looking like solid gold even against the glow he exuded.

But the way the tips of his fingers turned metallic, the way the edges of his beak gained a glint of metal… the way his feathers gleamed like glossy, polished gold, that was new. That had never happened before.

Huey found his voice before Dewey did. “We need to bring him back right now,” he said, and Dewey wholeheartedly agreed.

* * *

There was the pin.

The Three Feathers Pin, something told him. The voice was small, but informative, and it didn’t matter. The pin was the only thing that mattered, and he had it in his hand.

He stared at it, familiarizing himself with each crevice of it. The weight was something welcome in his hand, the call of precious metal a siren song in his ears. The gemstones glittered, red, and blue, and green, distantly familiar in a way he couldn’t comprehend. The gold beckoned, and he followed.

There were muffled sounds around him, but they grew quieter and fainter. He felt like he had stepped into a chamber of sorts, dark and soundproofed, and nothing could reach him. Everything felt cold and distant except for the pin. The pin was here. The pin was the only thing that was real, and tangible, and _here_.

But there was something else, too. Faint sounds, nearly inaudible, creeping in and refusing to be gone. Repeating the same syllables over and over until it echoed in his head, clawing and pulling, accompanied by campfire warmth and lightning sparks. They demanded his attention.

But… the pin was here. It was the most important thing. Right?

The pin twinkled, awash in golden light. It seemed to catch the light in a way that was impossible to ignore.

And then the voices grew louder, screaming _Louie, Louie_ in his ears, with campfire warmth and lightning sparks blazing stubbornly, intent on taking his attention elsewhere. Warm hands caught him – holding his shoulders, enveloping his torso, and he still had the pin lingering in his mind, but suddenly it didn’t seem as important anymore. Something took it from his hand, and there was a sudden blast of wind as the feeling of soaring through blue skies smashed into his bones, intermingled suddenly by rising waves at the edge of a horizon, before everything settled into nothingness as the feelings receded. The pin was gone, but it wasn’t important anymore, and that was okay.

_Louie_ , the voices called again, and he blinked, slow. With a jolt, he realized it was his name.

He followed the voices, reaching out to let his gold-cold touch campfire warmth and lightning sparks, and let them surround and embrace him and guided him out. Slowly, his senses came back to him; the calming sounds of people calling his name softly, the warm touches and hugs that kept him upright, the weight of his clothes against his shoulders, the light of flashlights hitting wooden walls. He blinked and swallowed the taste of metal on his tongue and tried to move.

Huey and Dewey released their hugs and held him at arms’ length. “Louie?” Huey called, soft and hesitant.

“I’m here,” Louie whispered. It was hard to speak louder. “I’m back.”

Dewey smashed against him as he enveloped him in a bear hug. Louie tipped backwards, surprised at the sudden collision, and only Huey’s steadying hands managed to keep him from falling over. And then all three of them _did_ end up falling over when Webby tackled them, blubbering and making sure they were okay.

“Wait, what happened to the pin?” Louie asked, looking around warily. He wasn’t keen on touching it again, though. The others could hold that for him, thanks.

“I have it here,” Uncle Scrooge said, showing a leather pouch that he held gingerly. “When Della took it from you, it made her magic go wild. Same with Donald’s. Webby tried holding it but it gave her gashes. We’ve decided no one should hold it without protection.”

It was only then that Louie realized Webby’s arms were dappled with red, lines of cuts lining messily along her skin, tainting her feathers scarlet. He stared, horrified, and she shook her head reassuringly. “I’m okay, this is nothing a first aid kit can’t help,” she said.

“Then we’d better get back to the trawler,” Uncle Donald said, jerking oddly. His eyes were glued at the red along Webby’s arms. “We’re done here.”

“Yes, we are,” Uncle Scrooge looked up at the ceiling. “We’ll figure out what to do next at the trawler.”

The walk back up to the surface was tiring, mostly because Louie had exhausted his magic with the pin earlier. It was more or less the same with Huey and Dewey, less so with Mom and Uncle Donald. Uncle Scrooge walked at the front, leading the march back to fresh air, while Uncle Donald fretted over Webby’s cuts, still twitching oddly. Mom hovered around Huey, Dewey, and Louie, like she wanted to say something but was unsure of it, and ended up instead keeping a close eye on them all. Louie didn’t mind – Mom’s presence was more than enough to keep him calm.

They reached the deck, and to Louie’s surprise, the fog had subsided enough for sunshine to seep through the remaining mist. Almost immediately, he could feel Mom’s magic swelling, the air around them greeting her as sunlight kissed her hair. Something similar happened when Uncle Donald peered over to peek at the ocean, with the waves lapping lazily at _Lady Gullianne_ ’s hull and Uncle Donald’s magic pushing and pulling against the water. Something settled within him and the twitches drastically improved. He sighed and waved Launchpad over, who moved the trawler closer to them.

“Okay, you kids, get back to the trawler, we’re going home.” Uncle Scrooge waved them over, and Mom scooped Huey and Louie into her arms, letting Dewey climb over to encircle his arms around her neck, then floated over to the trawler, where Launchpad helped them settle on the deck. Uncle Donald, meanwhile, held onto Webby and jumped overboard, ignoring Uncle Scrooge’s surprised squawk. He landed surprisingly lightly on the trawler and made a beeline to the pilothouse, where he kept a first aid kit. His arm feathers were stained red, but he didn’t seem to realize it. Launchpad, seeing the red mottling Webby’s arms, frowned and went after them.

“He’ll be fine, he always does better at sea,” Mom assured as she scooped Uncle Scrooge and floated over. The moment Uncle Scrooge’s feet left the ship, a crack thundered loudly. Mom landed on the trawler and set Uncle Scrooge down as Uncle Donald dashed out of the pilothouse, flared blue for a split second, and dashed back in, starting the engine and pushing the boat with both engine and magic closer to shore as soon as possible, rocking the passengers.

A moment later, Louie understood why. A great crack split the _Lady Gullianne_ in two, climbing up its main mast and pushing down, allowing water to rush in into the hull as the ship dipped and sank. Louie doubted the vortex would have pulled their trawler in, but he understood why Uncle Donald didn’t want to take any chances. Seeing how the wooden masts fell apart was hauntingly beautiful from afar; much less so from anywhere near.

They watched, silent, as _Lady Gullianne_ finally broke apart and sank into the depths, claiming its place in its watery grave. The solemn air was eventually broken when Uncle Scrooge wailed, “Me ship! _Me money!_ ”

“Uncle Scrooge, you got the pin,” Mom protested.

“And _Lady Gullianne_ deserves her rest,” Uncle Donald added, peeking out of the pilothouse. “Isn’t it obvious by now that the pin had been keeping her afloat?” He slipped back inside, no doubt to treat Webby’s wounds.

“You can still prove that she’s real if you have people dive around here,” Huey suggested. “With the right measures to preserve natural life here, I think it’s doable. It’s not too far away from land so it shouldn’t be too deep to dive.”

Uncle Scrooge’s face scrunched in thought. “That may be doable. I’ll have to see if it’s safe for diving, though, and send a team to assess the damage and if it’s appropriate to have people dive to see a shipwreck here…”

Dewey’s hand shot up. “Ooh, ooh, I can dive to see the damage too! Uncle Donald’s been talking about ships all our life, I bet I can tell if it’s good or not.”

“Only if Donald goes too,” Uncle Scrooge said, and Uncle Donald yelled an _okay_ from the pilothouse.

“And the pin?” Louie asked, eyes tracking the pouch Uncle Scrooge still held. Here, now, in the safety of his family surrounding him, he could feel the pin’s cold tendrils reaching out to him again. It made him feel cold, like his magic was trying to bubble up and swallow him whole.

Uncle Scrooge lifted the pouch and stared at it in disdain. “It’s clearly not safe for any of us. I’ll keep it in the bin, with the other dangerous artefacts. It should be safe there.”

Dewey leaned against him, resting his elbow on his shoulder, lightning sparks reaching and twining with his gold-cold. “Well, that’s good. We don’t really want to see that pin anymore.”

Huey shrugged bumped his shoulder to his. His warmth seeped into Louie’s fingers. “Yeah, it’s a lot more trouble than it’s worth.” He glanced at Louie and admitted, “I don’t want to see you lose control like that anymore, honestly.”

“Yeah, it’s scary.” Dewey lifted his elbow off his shoulder and shuddered.

“It’s not like I plan to do that again, ever,” Louie said defensively. “I don’t like it either, when that happens.”

“It’s okay, though,” Dewey assured. “We’ll bring you back, always.”

Lightning sparks thrummed with certainty, enforced by campfire warmth that circled Louie’s gold. Louie let their reassuring hum of power wash over him and allowed a smile. “Yeah, I know. I’ll do the same.”

**Author's Note:**

> the amount of time i needed to write this fic can be blamed to the amount of time i ended up devoting for research. i kept thinking about writing but my brain switched over to research mode with every little thing i see. i swear to god the weird research i did for this story is astounding. google search history include but not limited to: how to forge gold, underwater electricity, lightning in clear sky, and is there gold in human body. also, different types of ships, ghost ships, and coastal fog. at least i wasn’t researching human sacrifice like in one of my older fics. rambling about sailboats would just make people think you like boats a lot. rambling about human sacrifice isn’t even remotely socially acceptable.
> 
> i planned to make the events where the boys’ magic went wild take place in this underground/underwater cave system where a fissure at a wall leaks in natural gas that dewey or huey would unintentionally spark, but when i did some research on natural flammable gases i realized i had zero understanding of what the wikipedia articles said so i scratched that and went for other things instead. the options were abandoned offshore oil plant and a ghost ship. i went for the ghost ship because it feels more in line with ducktales’ vibe.
> 
> (dang, i learned a lot more working on this than in my classes at uni. they should have made me write fics about journalism ethics/history/conducts/etc, this is a lot more effective than taking notes and doing exams.)


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